What She Wants
by MizJoely
Summary: Christine Chapel is used to not getting what - or rather, *who*- she wants. This time, however, it's going to be different. Mirror!verse Chapel and Spock. Evil times, folks. Chapter 3 now uploaded.
1. Wanting

_A/N: OK, I'm a glutton for punishment, starting yet another story when I have so many unfinished and waiting desperately for my attention. Still, the plot bunnies dictate and I am forced to dance. Plus djinn1 wrote me something beautiful and inspired me to write something...total evil. A Mirroverse Spock/Chapel story. It could even be considered a companion piece to my story "The Mirror Crack'd," although stylistically it's very different. Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy this first installment. Oh, and warnings for non-con and violence and swearing - this is the Mirrorverse, ya'll, so you _**must**_ know what you're in for!_

* * *

Christine Chapel is used to not getting what she wants – no, strike that; she needs to be honest with herself.

She's used to not getting _who_ she wants.

Right now, she wants Spock, wants him desperately, wants him more than she wants two of her three secret goals in life. He is First Officer and Science Officer on the ship she has served on for the past four years, and nothing she has done has caught his attention in any way – positive, negative, or neutral.

To him, it's as if she doesn't even exist.

She is used to this, not getting who she wants, but this time she is determined to have things turn out differently than they have in the past. Which is probably a sign that she has finally gone insane – the classic definition of insanity being doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results – but the situation is different, so very different than anything she's gone through in the past, and so she nurtures hope, hides it away as best she can.

Which isn't always very well, she's the first to admit that. Nyota Uhura ridicules her "crush" on Spock every chance she gets, the bitch, and Pavel Chekov has offered numerous times to act as her "substitute Wulcan" any time she wants.

She ignores them and anyone else who tries to humiliate her; she's been damaged by better than them her entire life.

Like her younger, prettier – and, let's face it, more ruthless – sister. The one who stole every boy she ever fancied herself in love with from grade school through high school graduation, and probably would have cheerfully continued doing so during medical school if a jealous wife hadn't knifed her two days after her eighteenth birthday.

The memory doesn't sting, ten years later; hell, it hadn't stung much when her mother had sent the brief comm notification hours after it happened. She and the brat hadn't ever gotten on well, even putting aside all the boyfriend-stealing. Samantha was younger, blonder, prettier, smarter – although Christine was no slouch in three out of four of those areas (impossible to be younger, after all), Samantha had always outshone her. Resentment was the primary emotion between the two of them and she still feels it sometimes when she allows herself to reminisce, as she is doing now.

Her thoughts turn to her older sister. She, unlike the other two, had been a brunette like their mostly-absent father (a brilliant, cunning businessman but not much for the day-to-day tedium of married life and fatherhood), and had fled home for Starfleet as soon as she was old enough. She'd needed it, a place where her own talents – and face it, she was the most brilliant of the three, outshining even Samantha there, much to the younger girl's intense frustration – would be appreciated. Or so she put it in the hastily scribbled note she'd left behind for Christine on the eve of her own eighteenth birthday.

Five years later, Christine, the middle child, the one not as brilliant as the older, plainer (although, grudgingly admitted, still attractive enough when not being compared to her younger sisters) one, and not as dazzling to people (especially men, silly fools) as the younger sister, is the only one left alive.

And she is determined to keep it that way, to keep herself from falling into the same traps that took down her sisters. Samantha's death at such a young age was a tragedy, according to their parents (especially their father, who'd always favored her from the time she was born) and "Number One", as she'd taken to calling herself since her beloved Captain Pike stopped using her name for some obscure reason, had become collateral damage when Pike was assassinated – and she foolishly tried to put herself between him and a phaser set on "incinerate".

No, Christine Chapel might be unlucky in love, but she is no fool.

Or so she believes, right up to the minute she first lays eyes on Roger Korby.

He is her instructor in a class she's taken more out of idle curiosity than anything else – what use could someone who planned to stay on Earth and specialize in Human neurology have for a class in exobiology? Still, it sounds interesting, and she has a free slot during her fourth year (the year after "Number One" bites the dust, as the saying goes), so why the hell not?

Roger Korby is everything Christine ever coveted in a man; handsome, arrogant but not as cruelly cutting as many of his peers, taller than she is but not by enough to make her feel small, and intelligent. Incredibly intelligent; she feels he is wasting his life teaching at an Earthbound university and wastes no time in telling him so immediately after the first time they have sex.

Apparently he takes her words to heart; fast forward a year, and Christine is standing in front of a judge, wearing an archaic white lace dress and holding a dainty bunch of white Chrysanthemums and Baby's Breath in her hand.

Roger never shows up. When Christine returns to their shared apartment on the university campus a few hours after the judge impatiently tells her to give it up, she finds a note waiting for her.

In it, Roger expresses his need to "find himself," because "deep space is calling me", and more crap she doesn't bother reading before she balls the note up and tosses it down the disposal chute.

She wishes she could do as much with the electronic notification waiting for her when she pulls herself together enough to check to see if that stupid little hand-written note was all Roger left her. It is from University Housing, informing her that, as a student, with Dr. Korby no longer affiliated with the medical school, etc., etc.

The upshot is that she has lost her fiancée and her home at the same time. Roger must have known this would happen, but he didn't bother to try and set her up anywhere else.

The news that one of his teaching assistants has dropped out and vanished with him does nothing to help her temper. She is in the Campus Housing office the next morning, arguing with a bored official that she needs to stay somewhere, and can't she just stay at the apartment for a few more days? She loses that argument, but bumps into a fellow classmate on the way out.

Apparently her humiliation is all over the medical school, even though it has been less than twelve hours since her life was upended. The other student doesn't bother to hide her gleeful expression as she explains about the missing teaching assistant – a gorgeous blonde whose father is also a wealthy shipping magnate. "So she decided to just chuck it all and go with Roger when he asked her to," she says, and Christine fights the temptation to beat her to a pulp. She is only the messenger, no matter how much malicious enjoyment she is taking from the role.

So Christine just ignores her, walks away as she tries to relate more details, to sink her claws in deeper.

She returns to the apartment and packs up her things, arranging to have most of them sent to student storage until she is assigned a room in the overcrowded dorms. She shudders at the thought of returning to that crappy set of residences. She'd been so sure Roger was her ticket to the good life, that she'd be not only a bedmate but helpmeet as well, working alongside him in research since their fields were actually much more compatible than she'd believed at first…but no. Her "unlucky in love" curse has outlived both her sisters.

She finds herself in a bar that afternoon, drinking heavily and eyeing the available men to see which one might be worth going home with. At the very least she'll spare herself the cost of a hotel, which is probably where she will end up staying until a spot has been made for her on campus.

She shudders at the thought. Ugh. She isn't made for that sort of life, she has big plans and they don't include anything that might be viewed as backsliding. Which moving into the dorms definitely is.

Dimly she realizes she is saying all this aloud, pouring her frustrations out to a rather attractive dark-haired man – Human, although not everyone in this bar falls into that category – who is now sitting at her table. She takes in the fact of his attractiveness and decides that yes, if he wants to take her home, she will go with him. The quality of the booze she has been imbibing has certainly improved since he first offered to buy her a drink – when was that? At least a half-hour ago. And here she is rambling on like an idiot and falling in and out of a brooding daze, losing time when she knows better than to drink so heavily.

She is saying all this aloud as well, and he is agreeing with her even as he pours them both another stiff one – whisky shots now. She supposes he thinks he has to get her thoroughly lathered up in order to get her to go home with him. She is about to tell him it's OK, not to bother, she's already ready to grab her purse and go, when he asks her a question that makes her blink. "Wh – what?" she stutters, certain that her alcohol-soaked brain must be mishearing him.

"I said, have you ever considered a career in Starfleet? You'd be perfect, exactly the type they're looking for. Your future could be golden," he repeats patiently. Then he smiles at her and she finds herself smiling and nodding and agreeing that yes, Starfleet might be a nice change from the disaster the rest of her life has become. Certainly it would be a great way to track Roger down and get her revenge on him. Yes, she could certainly put the remainder of her education on hold for a few years and sign on as a nurse, why not? Nurses tend to have longer life expectancies than people in command – like her sister, for example. "Nurse Chapel" would easily survive a few years on a starship better than "Number One."

Five years have passed since then. She blinks as she continues to traverse memory lane. Really, only five years? Five years since she woke up with the worst hangover she'd ever suffered, to find herself signed up for a ten-year stint in Starfleet? Not the five-year term she vaguely remembers her good-looking recruiter mentioning, but those types are liars by nature. She hopes he was mugged after cashing in whatever bonus he received for dragging her drunken ass back to his office and getting her signature on the appropriate forms.

Mugged, and maybe killed. Because now her education has been put on permanent hold, and even though she is the one who got herself drunk, he is the one who took advantage of her and therefore he needs to suffer as much as she suspects she is going to.

Suspicions that prove correct soon after she finds herself aboard her new home, the I.S.S. _Tomahawk_. It is a light cruiser with a crew complement of fifty, of which she is now a member, and the captain is a complete and utter pig.

He takes a week to show how much of a pig he is. She expected to meet him well before now, but once the meeting takes place, she realizes that a week isn't nearly enough time for her to try and acclimate herself to her new life.

Where her supervisor, Dr. Sarah Davidson, is coldly efficient, Captain Nathaniel Bush is, in Christine's opinion, pure evil.

Not much different than her younger sister, come to think of it, but Samantha at least never wanted to have sex with her. All her boyfriends, yes; herself, no.

Captain Bush, on the other hand, wants to have sex with her about as often as he wants to breathe, and isn't above reminding Christine that there are far worse berths to be had in Starfleet than the one she's landed in.

She has an extra set of curses for her recruiter – whose name she doesn't even know – when the captain oh-so-casually lets it slip that he'd specifically requested a good-looking blonde for the vacant nurse's position on his ship, and had paid a handsome finder's fee when Christine arrived.

Knowing that, it seems a miracle that he's managed to hold off for an entire week before summoning her to his cabin and forcing her up against the wall, placing his sweaty hands all over her body and letting her know exactly what "duties" she is expected to perform when not in Sickbay.

She endures, although the unnamed recruiter rises to the top of her hate list, even above Roger Korby, for the entire year she finds herself on that hellish tour of duty.

It all comes to a head just before her anniversary. She is enduring a "performance review," which mostly involves her giving the captain a blow job and letting him come in her mouth, which she has always hated.

When he casually mentions, as he's re-fastening his pants, that he's not sure how good an evaluation he can actually forward to Starfleet Command, she snaps.

Grabbing up a decorative stiletto from his desk, she screams and stabs him right in the crotch, twisting the blade to do as much damage as possible, collapsing to the floor with him, pulling the blade out and thrusting it into him again and again until her screams – and his – finally alert his guards that something's gone wrong and they rush into the room and pull her off his bleeding body.

Kicking and screaming, covered in his blood, she is half-carried and half-dragged to the ship's tiny brig, thrown into the single cell, and left there for hours before anyone comes to get her.

By then she's calmed down; gone numb is more like it. She knows she has just sentenced herself to either an extended visit to the Agony Booth or, more likely, summary execution. She supposes it depends on whether the captain lives or dies, although she finds it impossible to care either way. She hadn't given him anything like a killing blow, had damaged no major organs in her frenzy, but her stabs had been numerous and there was an awful lot of blood…

The captain is lying in bed in Sickbay, Dr. Davison hovering over him like she actually cares about his recovery. He waves her away impatiently, and gestures for the two hulking guards to bring Christine over to him.

She knows she looks a sight; she is still bloody – hands and uniform and bared midriff, even some that has dried stiffly in her hair. Her hands are manacled in front of her and she has been stripped of her own dagger and mini-phaser and even the deadly hair pins she has tucked into her elaborate up-do.

That up-do is now a straggling, half-fallen mess, but in spite of all that she squares her shoulders and looks the captain in the eyes. Whatever comes next, she's ready for it.

Or so she believes. "I was wondering when you'd grow a backbone," he says, and she narrows her eyes in an expression of wary surprise. "Took you long enough. I think you're ready to face life on a real starship now, a bigger ship. What do you say, you ready to transfer off this bucket?"

She gapes at him as he jerks his head toward one of the guards, who grabs her and inserts the electronic key into the locking mechanism. The restraints drop away from her wrists and he catches them one handed before looking back at the Captain. Who nods, just once, curtly; the two goons step away from Christine and she risks a glance over her shoulder to see that they have taken up position on either side of the Sickbay doors.

"Well? Got an answer for me?"

Captain Bush is…offering her a transfer. "To what, a garbage scow?" she finds the courage to ask, sassing a superior officer not being considered a good career move. However, she's already tried to perform an unauthorized testiclectomy on him, and that's an even worse career move, which makes her already screwed several times over.

He shakes his head and leans back against the pile of pillows Dr. Davidson has provided for him. He raises his arms and thrusts them behind his head, continuing to regard Christine out of the sanest pair of eyes he's ever shown her. "No, to a top-of-the-line starship. Any one you want."

His eyes glitter with amusement as she opens and shuts her mouth several times, suffering from the worst case of massive confusion she's ever felt. "Even – even the _Enterprise_?" she dares to ask.

Top-of-the-line starship, indeed; ever since she found herself trapped in Starfleet, that has been a goal she's secretly harbored. To gain access to the man responsible for her elder sister's death, the only one of the two deceased Chapels she gives a damn about avenging. But a year in service on this claustrophobic cruiser has dampened her ambitions – or so she thinks until she feels them come roaring back to life. If Captain Bush isn't just taunting her, offering her a prize he's about to snatch away just to see her suffer a little more before she dies – and there is a very good possibility that that is exactly what he's doing – then she covets revenge against one James Tiberius Kirk almost as much as she wants to gut Roger for humiliating her on what was supposed to be their wedding day.

Something of this must show in her eyes, because the Captain breaks into a broad smile. "Someone on board that ship you want to find, eh? Yeah, I can make it happen."

Then he explains to her that his ship is something of a testing ground for new recruits, while Dr. Davidson nods confirmation of his words whenever Christine gives her a disbelieving look – which is often enough. She's been put through the worst humiliation of her life, forced to sleep with her commanding officer for a year…just so he can judge whether or not she's ready to swim in the big pool?!

It seems insane and she dares to tell him so. Once again he takes it in stride; the man she is seeing now is so very different from the man she thinks she's come to know that she takes a moment to wonder if he's been replaced by a duplicate from a kinder, gentler universe.

She shakes off the fanciful thought and listens, really listens, as he deigns to tell her why he does what he does. "The first year, it's make or break for even recruits who willingly sign on the dotted line," he says, an expression she's not familiar with but understands the gist of. "Starfleet invests a lot of money in them, and wants to make sure they don't cave under the pressure."

"Isn't that exactly what I did?" she asks, darting a glance at where his presumably recovering crotch is beneath the blankets covering him from toes to chest.

He follows her glance and laughs, actually laughs out loud. "No, actually, you did what I've been hoping you would do since day one – no, not stick a dagger into my testicles," he adds as her eyebrows raise themselves into disbelieving half circles. "You stood up for yourself, showed you had the backbone, the _balls_," he adds with another wicked grin, "to fight back. Starfleet doesn't allow pussies on board their best ships; you want on, you have to show you're willing to fight for it. And that's what you did. Finally."

This is happening too fast; she's almost dizzy with the sudden change in her circumstances, from prisoner to – what, exactly? "So you're willing to sign off on my transfer to the _Enterprise_," she says slowly, feeling her way carefully now that the time for impulsive action has apparently passed, "just because I finally said fuck you? Sir?" she adds after a beat.

He nods. "You got it. I have a new batch of recruits to weed through; you and the rest of your fellow newbies are getting kicked off this bucket no matter what. You just earned yourself a ticket to whatever ride you want; some of the others are going to end up on that garbage scow you mentioned, because frankly they're a bunch of fuck ups who wouldn't last a day on a Constitution class starship."

"But you think I will," she replies, still not quite daring to believe him, head still spinning although she's beginning to feel a bit more grounded.

"I said it, didn't I?" He sounds irritated now. "And before you ask, you won't be scrubbing in as a gurney-pusher; I happen to know that _Enterprise_ is looking for a senior nurse, and since Sarah here says you're more than competent at your job, I've used my recuperation time this evening to put your name in." He gives the doctor a warm smile, and she smiles back at him just as warmly while Christine wonders if this inexplicable show of tenderness is one of the signs of the biblical apocalypse.

Captain Bush returns his attention to her as the smile fades into one of his scowls, an expression she's much more familiar with. "Now show a little gratitude, a kiss for old time's sake, and get your shit together. You leave for Starbase 12 at 1100 hours."

She moves forward, slowly, painfully, as if she's the one who's been stabbed in the nether regions, but manages to lean down and give him the kiss he's demanded. It's a softer kiss than any other he's forced on her, and even though she can't say she approves of his teaching methods, at least it helps to know she hasn't spent the past year as his sex toy out of simple sadism.

No, it's a more complex sadism that's brought her to this point; a Starfleet specialty in an Empire that has more types of sadism than it does "client-planets." AKA slave worlds.

So she allows Captain Bush his kiss, returning it for the first time with a sense of enjoyment, allowing his tongue entry into her mouth and waltzing it lazily with her own before he pulls away, somewhat out of breath and eyes frankly admiring. "Damn, girl, I wish I'd known you could kiss like that before."

Then he waves her away and turns his attention to Dr. Davidson. And the ice queen does something entirely unexpected; she reaches out and offers her hand to her subordinate – _former_ subordinate – and wishes her luck.

She even sounds sincere. It really must be the apocalypse.

**oOo**

Christine makes her way to her quarters, ignoring the startled looks she receives; surely the scuttlebutt has already made its way through the small crew by now. Everyone must know that she attacked the captain, that it's his blood covering her, but she imagines its more that she's still alive and walking around free that catches the attention of those she passes.

When she reaches her tiny cabin she heads immediately for the 'fresher and scrubs the blood out of her hair and off of her skin under water as hot and intense as she can stand it. If she is leaving in an hour – less than that now – then she can use up her weekly ration and skip the sonics without worrying about it.

She is leaving this ship. She is going to a post on one of the most coveted starships in the Fleet.

She is going to have a chance to kill its captain, which thought brings her up short.

Is that really what she intends to do? If she does she knows she's signing her own death warrant, but she has learned how things work in the Fleet now, how little alliances are formed and broken among the crew all the time, how everyone is scheming and plotting and always with an eye toward advancement either personal or professional. So if she does intend to kill Kirk, she knows she'll have to wait until she sees how things work on his ship.

Unless, like now, she has the rug pulled out from under her and the universe turns on its end to show her that things weren't exactly as they seemed.

She considers the idea and rejects it. If this ship is the testing ground Captain Bush described – and she has no reason to doubt him, not unless her shuttle delivers her to a maximum security prison instead of Starbase 12 – then things will be different on board the _Enterprise_. Oh, the scheming and plotting and backstabbing – literal and figurative – will be the same, but she doubts that Kirk will turn out to be anything other than the man she's already heard so many rumors about.

She decides to stop worrying about it until she actually arrives on his ship. But she now has three goals, and acknowledges that they might be mutually exclusive: find Roger, kill Kirk, and stay alive until she can get out of Starfleet and back to her interrupted life.

Whether she meets any of these goals is up to fate. With that thought, she steps out of the shower and begins packing.


	2. Taking

Her experiences on the _Tomahawk_ happened five years ago.. Now, today, Christine is in her quarters, but she is getting ready to finally make her move on Spock. A real move this time, not just a desperate attempt to get him to notice her, to see her for the desirable woman she knows herself to be – and would know, she thinks with a flash of irritation, even if that drunken lech, Leonard McCoy, wasn't constantly telling her so in any number of his transparent attempts to get into her pants.

The last time she tried to catch the elusive Vulcan commander's eye hadn't even been voluntary on her part; she'd only been on the ship for a year when an alien virus had broken out on board, causing the entire crew to start acting out like a bunch of drunken teenagers. She'd tried to kiss Spock, and he'd rather coldly rebuffed her. She'd spent the rest of that evening crying in her quarters and so had missed out on the ship's spectacular near-destruction before Dr. M'Benga stepped in saved them all by finding a cure – which McCoy, of course, had just as promptly taken credit for.

She tried to avoid Spock in the immediate aftermath of that humiliating moment. Up until she tried to shove her tongue down his throat, he'd treated her exactly the same as he did every other woman on the ship – as if she didn't exist except when he needed her assistance. However, since discovering her credentials after The Roger Incident – she was studying to be a neurobiologist, after all, and had been very close to finishing her degree before being shanghaied into Starfleet – he has requested her assistance on several different projects.

It is a good sign. She adjusts her strategy, tones down the naked longing she feels for him, the desire to scratch that logical, Vulcan exterior and see exactly what he is hiding deep within. She is the very essence of cool professional in his presence, and now, it seems, her patience might actually be paying off.

Like anyone else in Starfleet, she has her allies and her spies, and one of them has whispered in her ear that Commander Spock requested emergency leave to Vulcan, only to be turned down flat by Captain Kirk.

Kirk, who is still alive in spite of being on Item No. 2 on Christine Chapel's Secret List, and who she has reluctantly concluded will probably never die by her hand. The fact that he was instrumental in the death of Roger Korby and his femme fatale robot girlfriend, Andrea, has certainly helped make his own death less of a priority in Christine's mind.

That, and his curious relationship with Spock.

When Christine first came on board, she assumed the two were lovers, or that Kirk was at least using the Vulcan as a sex toy to keep him in line, but careful observation made it quite clear to her that the two of them had a purely professional relationship. Strange, but not impossible even in Starfleet. What it came down to was amazingly simple: Spock had no desire to captain the ship, was actually content with his rank and dual duties as First Officer and Science Officer, and Kirk was extremely satisfied to have a second-in-command who wasn't gunning for his job.

This works out in Christine's mind as: Kirk in charge and alive = Spock not being elevated into a position he clearly doesn't want = Christine Chapel not avenging her sister's death.

Simple mathematics. If she wants Spock, she has to let Kirk live. Because the only way she _doesn't_ want Spock noticing her is when he is torturing her to death for murdering a superior officer.

She is sitting on her bed in her Spartan quarters as she reviews her reasoning, a private room because of her rank, which has risen to Chief Nurse in the last year. Mostly because she has saved McCoy's ass more than once, without once demanding credit or turning him in for incompetence. She hasn't had to resort to outright blackmail, either; he is smart enough to recognize what she's done for him and what she expects to receive as a reward, and makes sure she gets it.

She knows McCoy expects her to give in to him one day, give him a pity fuck if nothing else, or to suddenly become stupid enough to allow him to find a way to blackmail her into it, but she knows she won't. Ever. No matter what threats or blackmail he threatens her with.

Besides, if things go as she plans with Spock, then she will have a powerful protector and possibly even a way out of Starfleet.

She rises to her feet, carefully smoothing her uniform over the curve of her ass and brushing imaginary wrinkles from the front of her extremely short, blue skirt. She regards her reflection in the mirror with a critical eye, makes a minor adjustment to her low-necked halter top – tugging it down to expose more of her cleavage – and tucks her personal dagger into the top of her right boot. Then she readjusts the boot, tugging it up so it sits straighter on her thigh.

When she starts inspecting both black leather boots for smudges, she knows she is stalling. Spock won't care how she looks, if she's timed the situation correctly and if the rumors are actually true and he's about to go into some kind of mating frenzy.

She doubts it's anything that animalistic; this is a Vulcan they're talking about, after all. But after hearing how his temper been erupting the past few days as if he were fully Human instead of only half (another rumor, one she's taken the time to check into and have confirmed); after witnessing first hand his destruction of the Tri-D chessboard in the rec lounge the night before when he lost a match to Captain Kirk – his first loss ever, to her knowledge – she admits to a slight flutter of nerves.

Spock and Kirk. If she wants the one, the death of the other has to be permanently removed from her list. Is she ready to take that step?

She nods firmly to herself and mentally crosses him off the list. As she exits her quarters and starts purposefully down the corridor, she allows herself the optimistic belief that the third item on her list will soon be crossed off as well: get Spock into her bed and keep him there as long as possible.

**oOo**

She makes one stop on her way to Spock's quarters: the Officer's Mess. She has bribed Chef O'Brien to allow her access and has utilized her rusty culinary skills in order to cook up a Vulcan specialty: Plomeek soup. It has been simmering for most of the evening under Chef's supervision, and when she makes her way back to his domain – the Captain and department chiefs are all served real food, not the reconstituted crap the rest of the crew has to endure – she finds the soup waiting for her, exactly where Chef told her it would be when she bribed him into letting her cook it.

Chef is one of the few truly neutral members of this cutthroat crew of near-pirates, under the personal protection of Captain Kirk – and considering how conveniently many of the Captain's enemies simply vanish after incurring his wrath, it is a protection that has never been tested.

It makes Chef O'Brien arrogant, of course, but his demand for both cash and the use of Christine's body were expected and willingly handed over. She knows, in exchange, that the soup will not only remain untouched by anyone with sinister designs on the First Officer, but will no doubt be subtly enhanced by Chef's own personal brand of culinary magic.

However, Christine Chapel is nobody's fool; therefore she fishes the medical scanner she has pilfered from Sickbay out of its hiding place in her halter top and surreptitiously checks the soup over.

No one has tampered with it. Good. Not that she expected anyone to dare touch anything Chef prepares, but still. It doesn't hurt to be careful; she has no desire to inadvertently act as someone's personal assassin against the man she intends to seduce.

She also knows that if she does anything to the soup herself – if she tampers with it and poisons Spock – that Chef will not hesitate to turn her over to the Captain himself. It is a delicate series of checks and balances, one she knows better than to upset.

She places the bowl of soup on a small tray, covers it, flashes Chef a seductive smile, then saunters out of the Officer's Mess, tray and soup balanced easily on one hand.

She reaches Spock's door without incident – which, on a Starfleet vessel, simply means that she endures her share of propositions and lewd comments but disdains to respond to any of them. She is a woman on a mission, and will not be dissuaded.

Unless, of course, Spock rejects her again. If he does, she isn't sure how she'll react; perhaps she'll throw the soup at him, she thinks sourly.

She hesitates only a second before depressing the comm button and announcing her presence. Spock is one of the few members of the crew who occasionally dismisses his bodyguards when off-duty, and considering how volatile his temper has been lately, she's not surprised to see his door unguarded tonight.

After a long pause, long enough to make her uneasy, to wonder if he isn't there after all, the door slides open.

She responds to that silent invitation by striding confidently into the dark room…

…and stumbles to a stop at the searing heat that slams into her as she does so. She finds herself gasping for breath; not only has Spock set the environmental controls to something approaching Vulcan's desert heat, but he has adjusted the gravity to slightly above Earth-normal. Not enough to cause more than temporary discomfort as she adjusts to the sudden heaviness in her body, but disconcerting and alarming in conjunction with the blast-furnace atmosphere she is now enduring.

The door slides shut behind her, and she peers into the darkened room, feeling a thread of unease at how alien Spock's quarters seem to her – dark, lit only by what look like candles encased in red glass lanterns, the heavy gravity and intense heat, the scent of incense… "Mr. Spock?" she calls out, hating the uncertainty in her voice as she peers around, looking for him. "I've made you…"

"Plomeek soup." His voice is raspy, deeper than normal, and startles her enough that the tray slips on her hand. Before it can fall to the floor, Spock appears from behind the divider that hides his sleeping area from the sitting room of his quarters and deftly grabs the tray out of her shaky grasp. "Why have you brought me this, Nurse?"

She steels herself; he has taken the soup, kept it from falling, placed it on the corner of the desk that separates them; he hasn't thrown her out, so she considers that a good sign.

The sweat beading his forehead, the volcanic intensity in his dark eyes as he stares at her, however, are less than reassuring; has she timed her attempt at seduction when he is suffering from some strange Vulcan illness, is that what the rumors are really about? "Mr. Spock, are you all right?" she asks, the trained medical professional instinctively taking over. She reaches up to place her hand on his forehead, but he grabs her wrist before she makes contact.

She gasps at the feverish heat coming off his body; he is normally warmer than a Human but this…this is definitely not normal for him. Not at all. "Mr. Spock, you need to come with me to Sickbay," she says, all thoughts of seduction abandoned – for the moment. He needs medical help, and the scanner she brought with her won't do more than confirm the symptoms she can already see and feel.

He does not release her wrist as he moves around the desk, nor does he remove his searing gaze from her face. "Why," he demands, his voice deepening into a threatening snarl as he moves with unexpected speed and pins her against the wall, "did you bring me food?"

She twists in an attempt to free herself, then stops as she feels his hand on her thigh. He has grasped her dagger and pulled it out of her boot, leaving her defenseless; she watches as he brings it up to her throat and repeats his question.

"I thought…I wanted…I know the Captain won't – can't – divert the ship to Vulcan," she stammers, hating to show weakness, but knowing herself to be in very real danger right now. Spock looks as if he could as easily slit her throat as toss her out the door, and it is both disturbing and strangely arousing to see the normally staid, controlled First Officer losing control like this. "I thought maybe you'd like something, something that would remind you of home…"

"You are not simply offering me food, Nurse Chapel," Spock growls – yes, growls! – at her. He leans his head forward and sniffs her, like some kind of animal. Again, terrifying – and incredibly arousing. The hand holding her dagger drops to his side; she hears the weapon clatter to the thinly-carpeted deck and feels relief washing over her. "You are offering me yourself," Spock concludes as he pulls his head back in order to once again meet her eyes.

She nods, having no other response to that – accusation? Or simple statement of fact? It is the truth, either way.

The only question is, what will he do with that information?

Before she can do more than form that thought it is answered. Spock darts his head forward again, this time to plant a searing kiss on her lips.

When the kiss ends, she finds herself gasping for air – and fighting off panic. "Mr. Spock, wait!" she cries as he appears intent on repeating his actions. "You're sick, you need help –"

"My condition is not contagious," he responds in a sudden return to his normal, dry, clipped form of speech. "It is not an illness in the sense you mean, Nurse – Christine," he corrects himself, and she feels a thrill pass over her at the sound of her name on his lips. "It is only logical that you understand what to expect now that you have offered yourself to me – and now that I have accepted your offer."

With that, he reaches up and plants his fingers on her face, forcing a meld on her so intense she nearly passes out before he withdraws his mind from hers.

_Heat. Desire. Desperate, urgent NEED, thrumming through his veins, drowning his intellect. A wife, waiting for him back on Vulcan, ready to submit to that need, to burn with him in the fires of Pon Farr. Kirk, refusing to divert even for a short period of time; some scheme of his is time-sensitive and he will not give up the reward he intends to take from whatever unknown planet they are currently racing toward._

_The images of Kirk are fleeting, irrelevant once it is clear he will not give Spock what he needs – he is aware of his First Officer's peculiar biological situation but simply orders him to "take care of it" as best he can on board the ship._

_Christine understands that Spock has always been aware of her desire for him, even before she expressed it so ineptly while under the influence of that alien virus – and he is equally aware that her desire has never waned. So when Kirk turned down his request – demand – to return to Vulcan, Spock knew it would take very little time for Christine to become aware of the situation._

_After that, he'd waited for her to come to him. Exactly as she'd done._

There is more, much more, information exploding through her mind carried on a wave of emotion so intense she can barely process it.

One thing, however, is as clear as glass, clear as the purest dilitium crystal; the intense, nearly overwhelming sensation of pure, animal lust she feels lurking behind Spock's logical, rigid façade.

He must take a mate, or die. The Pon Farr, everything it encompasses, all it truly means, has been made clear to her.

He needs her; he selected her deliberately when he understood that his Vulcan wife was not going to be available to help him through this chaotic period in his life. If Christine had not come to him, he would have been driven to seek her out.

She has saved him that effort, and now all his energies are focused on her. He used the last of his shattering self-control to enter into that meld with her; it wasn't the attack she first assumed it to be, only the most expedient method of showing her what she could expect for the next 72 hours of her life.

She feels his lips and teeth worrying the base of her throat, and retains enough presence of mind to slap the privacy lock on the door. She manages to push him off her just long enough to send a quarantine notification to Dr. McCoy's computer, including herself in the coded message, then Spock is all over her, his hands tearing at her uniform, his mouth on her body, one knee jammed between her legs, his erection burning against her midsection.

She has endured rough sex before, but knows that even the most brutal rape she endured at the hands of Captain Bush will be nothing compared to the ferocity of mating with a Vulcan deep in the thrall of Pon Farr.

A thrill passes up her spine at the thought and a predatory smile touches her lips.

She can hardly wait.


	3. Having

**Warnings for dub-con and violence and loads of inetense sex and oh, yeah - I own nothing but the aforesaid elements.**

* * *

The first thing Christine learns from that initial, violent sexual encounter with Spock is that – in his current state of mind, at least – seeing to her pleasure is not his first priority. Their coupling, with her still slammed up against the wall of his quarters, is harsh, Spock's thrusts pounding into her piston-regular and with about as much finesse to them.

The second thing she learns is that his utter disregard for her pleasure is the biggest turn-on possible; in spite of the rapidity with which that first encounter comes to its inevitable conclusion, she still manages to orgasm just before Spock does.

She has never been a screamer or moaner, always managing to keep her satisfaction a secret; leaving her partners guessing or confused or frustrated by her lack of verbal response to their attempts – successful or otherwise – to bring her off has always been part of her own pleasure.

This time, however, she finds herself crying out hoarsely as she comes, Spock's name on her lips as she digs her fingernails into the back of his neck and shoulders and tightens her leg's grasp on his backside.

His response is a guttural growl, sated for the moment but clearly indicating that there is more to come. She gasps as he releases the punishing grasp he's had on her hips, transferring his hands to her wrists as he literally drags her over to his bed and throws her down on it hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs.

He is still wearing – or at least, half-wearing – most of his clothes; he drops to the edge of the bed, grunting as he yanks his boots off and tears the remainders of his uniform from his body.

Christine takes this brief respite – she can see him hardening again, quite literally before her eyes – to remove the tattered remains of her own clothing.

She spares a gleeful moment to hope he has something suitable for her to wear whenever she returns to her own quarters – which she sincerely hopes will only be long enough for her to bring her belongings right back here – then her mind goes empty as Spock pounces on her, pressing her body into the mattress. His teeth latch onto her throat as he once again thrusts his knee between her legs. Before he can ram himself into her, however, she decides she needs to at least attempt to remind him that he is fucking another living being and that it's not just some overpriced sex android (_like Roger's bitch, Andrea_) he's using.

So she reaches between their tangled limbs and grasps his overheated shaft firmly in her hand, at the same time turning her head and running her tongue up the shell of his deliciously pointed ear.

His response is one of those spine-shivering, toe-curling, purely animalistic growls he's been making today, and the sudden tensing of his body against hers. She continues to hold him, stroking him, knowing her hands must feel positively cool next to feverish body heat, and his growl morphs into an appreciative moan as he rests his forehead on the junction of neck and shoulder, right where he's been so greedily sucking a love-bite into her skin.

She keeps working his rock-hard erection until suddenly he shudders hard and ejaculates against her hand, his lava-hot seed spilling over her to coat her abdomen. He collapses against her, further smearing the hot wetness over her body and his as well, and she rejoices in the mindless animalism of it.

Like some primitive from the dawn of time, he's marked her with his scent and seed and bite on her neck. And she loves it.

As Spock finally stops shuddering against her, he raises his head and looks at her – directly into her eyes, as if truly seeing her for the first time since he allowed her entry into his quarters. "That was…unexpected," he finally manages to rasp out, one eyebrow quirked.

She thinks she sees the movement of his eyebrow mirrored in the corner of his lips, but the beard act as an effective camouflage and so she puts aside the possibility that Spock had actually smiled at her and reaches up to brush her fingers against the lobes of his ears. "Unexpected but good, I hope?" she asks as she gives him her own smile – a real one, not the mechanical seduction she's offered to other men in the past. "I'm not Vulcan, I have to find some way to keep you from outpacing me."

He stills at her words, and she feels her stomach clench in sudden panic. Has she said something wrong, was it a mistake to remind him who he's taken to his bed? The mind meld they'd shared had indicated that the Pon Farr could last anywhere from 48 to 72 hours before easing, but Spock is half-human and it's possible that he's already over this alien version of a rut cycle.

He must see or sense the rising panic in her eyes, in her mind, because he leans down swiftly to plant one of those toe-curling kisses of his on her lips. "Relax, Christine. I am…quite pleased to have you take the initiative while you still can," he murmurs against her ear when the kiss ends. "Vulcan women do not engage in manual stimulation during sexual congress, and I have rarely engaged with women of other species."

Rarely engaged, eh? She smirks; so much for that vaunted Vulcan self-control. She'd have bet her entire share of the ship's take that Spock hadn't "engaged" outside of his prim little Vulcan marriage at all.

Of course, she also needs to reassess her opinion of how cold a Vulcan marriage actually is, considering what has just occurred between the two of them. She hesitates to ask; just because Spock is using her body – and being remarkably courteous and even somewhat teasing during this moment of lucidity – doesn't mean he will welcome personal questions regarding the state of his marriage.

So she bites her tongue and watches as he pushes himself off her body, padding naked to the drinks dispenser in the wall next to the 'fresher door. He pours himself a tall glass of what looks like sparkling water, draining it in a series of gulps before turning to face her and raising an inquiring eyebrow. "Juice, please," she says, correctly interpreting his non-question. She'd really prefer a glass of wine and a marijuana joint, but doubts he'd approve of either habit and so, once again, refrains.

Really, this man has gotten pretty deeply under her skin if she's managed to get him into bed and is still willing to pretend to be the type of woman he prefers – although, of course, she actually has no idea what type of woman Spock prefers. He said he'd chosen her once Captain Kirk told him they weren't going to Vulcan, but was that solely based on her blatant desire to share his bed, her physical attributes, her willingness to sleep with an alien? Not all Human women were comfortable sleeping with men outside their own species, but as she'd just discovered, that was their loss.

"You are spending a great deal of time pondering my likes and dislikes, Christine."

Startled, she looks up to find Spock standing directly in front of her. She is still sprawled across his bed, leaning back on her elbows as she loses herself in thought. He sits on the edge of the bed and offers her a glass. Abashed, she sits up and accepts the drink – it smells and, yes, tastes like the best _pomjit_ fruit juice she's ever been served – then laughs and tries to tell him her mind was on her ruined uniform.

The change in him is immediate and dramatic – and potentially fatal for her. His face instantly transforms into a scowling, nearly demonic mask of anger, and he lunges forward, grasping her throat in his hand and squeezing. "Do not presume to lie to me, Nurse Chapel," he growls.

Her fingers go up, both hands scrabbling for purchase as her vision starts to darken. She chokes out a single word – "S-sorry" – before he releases her as abruptly as he grabbed her.

She is staring at him, wide-eyed with shock, coughing a bit from the pain in her throat. She dropped the glass when he attacked her and is now covered in sticky pomjit fruit juice. The glass itself has fallen to the floor, unbroken. Spock kicks it away with one foot, and Christine realizes he is shaking – but no longer with rage.

His expression has smoothed out, although she can see the effort it is taking him to present a calm façade to her as he turns and says, his voice under better control than his eyes: "When the Pon Farr is upon me, Christine, you would do well to remember how volatile a Vulcan's temper can be. My emotions are much closer to the surface than a full-blooded member of my species would be, and therefore that much more difficult to control."

He reaches out with one hand; she can't help flinching back as his fingers graze her neck, but forces herself to remain still after that single, involuntary movement. Forces herself to keep looking directly at him as he continues speaking. "I do not wish to harm you. However, as this situation progresses, you will find that my rational, conscious self will become more and more subsumed by the needs of the Pon Farr. We share a mental link now, a temporary emotional bond designed to allow partners to anticipate one another's needs while…trapped…in the cycle. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

She does, and nods, more confident now. "I was wondering a lot of things, Mr. Spock," she confesses, her voice husky and cracking but she plows ahead; who knows how long this lucid period will last? "None of which are appropriate to the moment. But," she adds as he rises and heads back to the drinks dispenser, "if you ask me again when this is all over…I'll be happy to tell you."

He nods, once, pours her another glass of juice, hands it to her without a word and vanishes into the 'fresher.

She could do with a bit of a wash-up herself. After draining the second glass of juice, she rises to her feet and pours a half-glass of plain water. Using the shredded material of her uniform skirt as a washcloth, she wipes herself down, doing her face first to clean up the worst of the sweat.

She has just placed all four of the glasses they'd used onto the recycler when the 'fresher door bursts open and Spock emerges, eyes wild as he seeks her out in the semi-darkness.

She braces herself, and is glad she did so when he literally launches himself at her, slamming her unresisting form against the wall and once again attacking her with teeth and lips, his hands grabbing her ass and slamming their bodies close together. The fever is back upon him with a vengeance, and all she can do is hang on and do her best to enjoy the ride.

They have sex up against the wall for a second time, only this time her legs are firmly wrapped around his waist as he supports her body with one arm beneath her ass and the other hand pressed firmly against the wall. She knows she isn't the heaviest woman in the world but she is also far from waif-like. Spock is holding her as if she weighed nothing at all, his breath hot on her neck and still-aching throat.

She orgasms after the fifth or sixth time he slams into her. It is unexpected; she nearly loses her grasp on his shoulders, cries out even more loudly than she had the first time, calling his name over and over again.

When he reaches his own climax a few minutes later, she has come down off her endorphin-fueled high and is wondering what the fuck just happened. Well, yes, _fucking_ just happened, but the man literally choked her for lying to him not more than fifteen minutes ago. Has she lost her mind? Yes, lots of women like it rough, but she's never allowed a man to put his hands on her like that before. At least, not when their sexual encounter was by _her_ choice.

She supposes it is because of the semi-apology Spock offered, the explanation he oh-so matter-of-factly gave her right after it happened. During that all-too-brief period of lucidity.

Now, even though he's just spent himself on her again – three times in less than an hour, she was going to have to scrounge some kind of topical analgesic for herself from his meds cabinet or else find herself rubbed so raw that blood would start to flow – there was no sign of clarity returning to his eyes, not the speeding sharpness she associated with the Vulcan First (_and Science, mustn't forget that_) Officer.

He pushes himself away from the wall as he allowesher legs to drop back to the floor. Wobbling a bit, she starts to head for the – well, _head_, to use proper naval terminology– but is stopped by his hand on her arm, grabbing her and pulling her back toward him with a grunt.

She turns to face him, hoping for some semblance of understanding in his eyes. "I have to pee," she says, loudly and clearly. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I just have to use the bathroom. Please," she adds, feeling a little anxious that he might misinterpret her words as a command instead of a request and attack her again.

His hand relaxes its punishing grip on her arm and he starts walking toward his bed. She hears him collapse upon it as she makes her way to the 'fresher, praying she'll find something to help ease the burn she's starting to feel between her legs.

Luck – or careful planning on Spock's part – is with her. Not only does she find the exact topical analgesic she'd have brought with her had she known exactly what she was letting herself in for, but also a soothing ointment every woman in the Empire had heard of but few – most definitely _not_ including herself – can afford.

So much for "luck" being part of the equation; there is no way Spock just "happened" to have this particular medicated ointment on hand. Not only is it hideously expensive – it would cost her at least a year's salary to buy a jar this size – but it is only available from a few select Orion traders. One of whom, it dawns on her, belongs to the same caste as the paunchy bastard Kirk sold Carolyn Palamas to six months ago.

She gapes at the delicate, oval latinum-plated container of ointment. Had Spock been planning this assignation that long ago? But if he'd wanted her, why wait until he could barely control himself? He knew he could have her any time he wanted…

Reason asserts itself, putting the brakes on her feverish speculations. Of course he hadn't planned any of this. The only thing he'd planned was to get home to his Vulcan wife when the Pon Farr hit him. So maybe he'd purchased this particular item for _her_?

No, that doesn't make sense, either. Vulcan women have more sexual stamina than Humans, no shame in admitting that – no pride, either, but no shame. It is a simple matter of biology and Christine refuses to analyze her reasons for hating that fact at the moment.

She reaches the conclusion that she can't actually reach _any_ conclusion, but is just going to have to hope it isn't meant to be an expensive (_extremely_, not to say _outrageously_ expensive) gift or bribe for another woman, because she _damned_ well is going to use it.

As soon as she leaves the 'fresher Spock is waiting for her, pulling her to the floor and once again pounding into her with furious need.

She should be too spent, too used up and exhausted at this point to feel anything but numb endurance, even with the soothing ointment easing the burn between her legs, and is vaguely surprised to discover that all she feels is her own growing heat as she once again wraps her legs around his waist. She meets his furious pace with fervent hip-thrusts of her own and bites his neck, hard, as he sinks his teeth into her left earlobe. Her nails rake their way down his back, deep enough to draw blood, and his grasp on her hips is bruising.

She comes, hard, well before he does, then comes again when he reaches his own climax. She is dizzy and panting with effort; she is buzzing on a high like none she's ever experienced. Sex with Spock is turning out to be everything she ever fantasized about and more; passionate and brutal, inventive and exhilarating and bruisingly painful, all at once.

In a word: perfect.

* * *

_A/N: OK, so there is more but it will be in a sequel entitled "What She Gets". Don't worry, already hard at work on that one-shot. :)_


End file.
